


and we have killed him

by themountainkingsreturn



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: F/F, an excuse to get weird and kinky, femslash with minimal plot, the only daisy/lucy i have ever encountered and this is a terrible sin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themountainkingsreturn/pseuds/themountainkingsreturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Take me with you,” Lucy says. And horribly, somehow, Daisy does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we have killed him

**Author's Note:**

> i'm here to fix the disappointing lack of femslash in the BH fandom
> 
> title obviously taken from Nietzche
> 
> there will be more

The walkway smells like primroses and she is waiting at the door. It’s been two days since Mitchell whispered _come back tonight and we’ll tear the world apart_ and two days since she came back and found the pink house locked and empty. In the meantime, she’s taken a scalding hot shower that lasted for two hours, washed the matted blood out of her hair (a bitch every time), and put on nice clothes. For Ivan. He always cared about looking nice in a way she didn’t. She liked to look good. Ivan liked to look _sharp_.

She is waiting at the door, and has been for some time, when Lucy Jaggat appears, mouse-footed and frizzy and rumpled. She smells like blood that isn’t her own. She smells like Mitchell. When she sees the strange woman sitting on her doorstep, Lucy freezes, almost comically, limbs quivering, face pale. She looks even more like a mouse now. Daisy stands and puts her hands in her back pockets. She smiles.

“Hello, Professor Jaggat,” she says.

Lucy just looks at her and quivers some more.

“You and me need to have a chat.”

Lucy takes a step backward. Quivers. Daisy laughs, low and deep. It feels like a cough. She wants to choke it out. “Let’s be honest, love, I’d catch you no matter where you ran.”

Daisy notices that, unlike the rest of her, Lucy’s face isn’t quivering at all. She smiles less as she sees this. Lucy’s face is not only not quivering, it is marble; a sculpture carved by someone with godlike and terrible skill. Daisy wants to hack chips from it. “Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?” she says. “Invite me in.” 

 

* * *

 

The tea is too hot to drink, so they sit across the table in silence. Lucy is no longer quivering; she is marble all over. Daisy watches her and Lucy watches her tea.

“Are you here to kill me?” Lucy says eventually. Her voice is softer than Daisy expected. Nice little Manchester accent. Funny. Mitchell always seemed to like girls with bright, tinny voices and short skirts and thick eyeliner, but this one is almost frumpy. There’s no way she’d be able to pull off a mini skirt. She’s old, too. Looks thirty, thirty-five. Far older than Daisy was when she met Ivan, an age she’s filled into now, like molten metal hardening in a mold.

“Yes,” Daisy replies, simply. She tilts her head, worries her lip with her teeth. “Usually I’d have done it by now, but I suppose you’re a special case.”

Lucy looks at her then. Her eyes are far too big for her face, and Daisy isn’t sure she likes it.

“I killed someone close to you,” Lucy says. Not a question, but a bland statement, hardened far beyond petty self-loathing. _Resignation to moral relativism,_ Ivan would smirk, because he so loved being a monster that was self-aware. She had to kiss him to shut him up, stop him saying that, stop him —

“Ivan,” she says. “My husband. Sixty-nine years. Can you imagine?”

Lucy nods. She doesn’t apologize.

Monsters like them are past apologizing.

 

* * *

 

Lucy says, “I know I don’t have the right to ask you this.”

“Probably not,” Daisy says, and smiles, tight, mouth like a hangman’s knot.

“I came here to pack,” Lucy says. “I have to find someone. Some people. I have to tell them I’m sorry. I have to fix it.”

“Mitchell’s long gone,” Daisy says.

“I know,” Lucy says. “I went to the house.”

Lucy is eying Daisy’s mouth, and Daisy knows she is imaging the canines tucked behind her lips, elongated to rip and carve into flesh. Daisy imagines it, too. It’s so close to being a reality — she can see herself climbing across the table, pressing a hand over her screaming face, fingers clawed against temple and hair and jaw, pushing her head aside to reveal her white neck, breaking into taut skin and sinew and vein with a _pop_ easier than biting into a ripe plum…

But she doesn’t. The prospect suddenly seems exhausting, useless. She feels old. She’s never felt this old before. She feels like she imagines Ivan did. Ancient, bored, blank. She suddenly isn’t as hungry as she thought she was. She can picture Ivan sitting as she is now, leaning back, sipping tea, sitting with some little mouse he would poke and prod and bait and eventually tire of and eat. Ivan played a longer game, or he didn’t play at all.And the elaborate scenario she has constructed — drinking tea with Lucy Jaggat and exacting some sort of revenge from the twisted normality of it, before enacting the hours of elaborate torture she had concocted in the shower — doesn’t seem as delectable. She’d repressed her initial instinct to rip her apart in the street, to strew the pavement with her intestines, with the contents of her stomach, with the grime and blood covering her filthy hands, in favor of something that might’ve more pleased Ivan. But something has miscarried, and now she is sitting sedately in Lucy Jaggat’s kitchen, drinking tea and thinking about killing her.

_This is not how Ivan would have avenged you_ , she thinks. Ivan would have dropped his gentility, broken Lucy’s neck in the streets, said, _fuck respectability, fuck the suit, my Daisy is dead._

She feels sick. She drinks her tea. She thinks about killing Lucy Jaggat.

 

* * *

 

And when, finally —

“There’s a man named Kemp,” Lucy says. Her mouth is a stretched, pale slash, her face growing red as Daisy’s fingers press against her white, white neck. “After you kill me, you need to kill him. He helped me hurt people. And I don’t think he’s going to stop.”

“Want me to do your dirty work for you,” Daisy hisses. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay him a visit, too.” Her mouth is close now, so close to that plum-neck —

“He told me I was meant for greatness. We were on the path to glory,” Lucy chokes. “And he made me a monster.”

Daisy suddenly grips hard enough that Lucy makes a gurgling, gasping noise, her head knocking against the doorframe, Daisy’s face millimeters from her own.

“ _You were always a monster,”_ she says, and Lucy closes her eyes, would nod if she could.

This is the moment. This is when she should do it. But she can’t tell Lucy to close her eyes, because they are already closed. So she waits. And waits. And the plum remains unpunctured, ripe and firm and sickly sweet-smelling, like incense under the heady blood-smell that Mitchell left, his hand around this very neck, his breath on this same face. Was he thinking of Lucy Jaggat when they fucked? she wonders. When she came, she’d bitten into his shoulder, tasted blood that wasn’t his, said Ivan’s name in his ear. Either he hadn’t noticed, or he hadn’t cared. He was probably imagining doing what she was doing now, squeezing the life out of Lucy Jaggat, as he came with a moan and machine-gun rapid breath —

“Just do it,” Lucy breathes, “Why won’t you do it?”

Daisy’s hand is squeezing as hard as she can, but they both know this is not how she delivers a death blow. Never like this, never cleanly, never without blood.

“Take me with you,” Lucy says.

 

* * *

 

And horribly, somehow, Daisy does.

They begin with ransacking the pink house. Daisy tears unsanctimoniously through half a century’s worth of junk in Mitchell’s room — jazz vinyl, dity clothes, old magazines, a fucking saxophone — while Lucy stares at what is presumably the ghost’s room, and then looks into George and Nina’s strange gnome-wallpapered bedroom, bereft of all possessions. Lucy only does a single perfunctory circuit of this room, perhaps out of remorse or guilt or the sanctity of spaces of those she’s fucked over. Daisy tears open the mattress just to be sure.

The little kitchen is half-barren, only seeming necessities taken. Mostly mugs. There are only a couple left, an ugly patterned one and a souvenir mug from the Bristol City Museum.

“Look,” Lucy says. She is staring at the corkboard next to the front door. There are old tickets for a movie, a sale flyer for a shop, a poster for a concert at a bar with a dingy name, and a pamphlet for a resort in Brighton. “Do you think — ?”

“No,” says Daisy shortly. “They have Mitchell. They’ll want to get him away from civilization. Too many people to kill in a city.”

“Then they head west instead.”

Daisy laughs.

“They head west.”

 

* * *

 

Daisy knows it is not lost on Lucy that she has no leverage. Her very status of being not-dead is wrapped around Daisy’s good graces, and a single sentence, a request to come along and watch the bloodbath. Daisy imagines it as she dozes on the train, Lucy wound so tight beside her she thinks she might explode. She imagines this old man looking like a hermit on an island, thin and wrinkled and socket-eyed. She imagines snapping him in two like a branch, the bloody middle of him tearing apart slowly, sinew and muscle and organ all open for her to paint with, this mummy-man with blank, sunk eyes shining in the moonlight, and beside him, Lucy — plum-skin punctured, all looking, all seeing gone, only blankness in those eyes, those sad doe-eyes —

Daisy awakes with a start, and Lucy practically jumps out of her seat. She is waiting, Daisy knows — waiting for the moment Daisy decides it’s no longer worth it, and kills her and everyone around to boot.

_No longer worth it_. What is there to be worth? The question pushes at her brain, and Daisy grimaces, bites one of her rings. A voice like Ivan’s ( _oh god he’s gone, his voice is only in my memory now, i will have to carry him carry that weight that beautiful weight, red wine on the terrace, iron tang in his smile, all mine to carry, all mine_ ) whispers again, _what is there to be worth_ , _Dais, why keep the bitch around at all?_ and she bites her finger now and thinks back, thinks only of how beautiful he looked in the Italian sunlight, thinks of

 

* * *

 

Ivan toeing disinterestedly at the body of the bellboy on the floor. “Honestly, Piglet, you take so long to play with your food…I had to open the paper and order a second drink to avoid looking like a john.”

Daisy crimps the damp, plush towel under her toes to dry them, then wraps it around herself. “I played the seductress with this one,” she says as she emerges from the bathroom. She drapes herself on the bed, mass of wet hair almost black against the bright white of the bedspread. She was careful not to get any blood on it. Ivan hated a dirty bed. “Like in the films — the beautiful woman has to seduce the boy before she kills him, otherwise what’s the point?” She stares at a thin trickle of blood that has dried by the boy’s mouth as Ivan slides onto the bed next to her. _Seductress_ was a new role for her. She tries on new things every time — damsel, demon, executioner, connoisseur, bored to sobs, hunger, hungry, hungriest—

“You could be an actress,” he says, kissing her shoulder. “Greta Garbo.”

Daisy closes her eyes, hums, hot, hungry, hungry, hungry, as Ivan’s fingers trace her leg.

“Sometimes I think about you in that shelter,” Ivan murmurs against her neck, “your hair all up in that scarf…and how beautiful it is now. How beautiful you are — ”

Daisy kisses him before he can finish, and climbs on top of him, grinds her hips down. Ivan smiles lazily.

“What would I do if I never found you?” he says.

“Probably bored yourself to death,” Daisy says, and kisses him again, drops the towel, puts his hand between her legs.


End file.
